First Breath After Coma
by littlelindentree
Summary: Lyla Garrity once spent three hours on the side of Highway 80 with only herself for company.


This takes place during 1x22 "State", and is inspired by a deleted scene from that episode which you can (and should!) find on the DVD. It was written for Cliche Bingo on LJ, for the "miles from anywhere: geographical isolation" prompt. The title is taken from the song "First Breath After Coma" by everyone's favourite FNL band (aside from Crucifictorious, obviously,) Explosions in the Sky.

***

Lyla Garrity once spent three hours on the side of Highway 80 with only herself for company.

When she found out that it was going to be hours before a tow truck could get to her, she settled in for a long, boring afternoon.

No Jason, no Tim, no Mom or Dad or Tabby or Buddy Junior, no cheer practice or rally rehearsal or spirit week or AP English homework. Nothing except the hot sun, her brand new used lemon of a car, the traffic racing by, and the wind in her hair.

Lyla was horrified. Her life could not possibly get any worse.

Yes, this was the perfect ending to the worst semester of her life. Everything she had worked for and hoped for and believed in had come crashing down around her, in one shocking avalanche of change. For a while Lyla had felt like the little Dutch boy shoring up the dam using only his finger, but eventually it was too much even for her, and she let go, allowing the water to pour down and wash away everything she had once held dear. She lost her relationship, her future, her family, her friends, and her self-respect.

Now, she was just left with herself.

Lyla looked around her and wondered what she was even doing here, stuck on the side of a highway on the way to the stupid Texas high school state finals. Why was she even going? Who cared about football? Who cared about the stupid Panthers? Who cared about cheering for a bunch of jocks running around a field wearing helmets and shiny tights, chasing a dumb ball? _Who_ was she cheering for, for that matter? Her cheating ex-fiancé. Her cheating father. The drunk she screwed up her whole relationship for. Them, and all their idiot friends.

It wasn't like she was going to have a good time in Dallas. She was driving there alone because she had no friends. She hadn't even bothered asking any of the other cheerleaders if she could carpool with them; the looks they gave each other when she tried to be friendly said everything she needed to know, and she'd stopped trying weeks ago. When they did room assignments for the hotel, Lyla volunteered to share a room with Miss Derr, electing to forego the humiliation of watching the other girls try to avoid rooming with her.

Pacing restlessly around her car, Lyla was hard-pressed to figure out why she bothered. Why she had _ever_ bothered. Had she really gotten anything out of cheering, out of organizing bake sales and pancake suppers, pep rallies and dances, out of baking cookies for Jason every game day? She found it hard to believe that there had been a time when she found any of that tolerable, never mind satisfying.

Around hour two, Lyla began calling people. She called her father; naturally it went straight to voicemail because he was otherwise occupied with Panthers business. She yelled that he was a selfish, philandering jackass who didn't deserve a family, and then punched the "END" button with one angry finger. She would have phoned Tim to tell him he was a lazy, self-destructive, disloyal man-whore with a drinking problem, but he didn't have a phone. She called Jason, all geared up to leave a vitriolic, guilt-inducing message on his voicemail. Unfortunately, he picked up, so instead she spent two minutes yelling at him before hurling the phone as hard as she could across the field.

The phone landed with a thwack in a gopher hole, and when Lyla fished it out, she found that it no longer turned on. With a shriek, she threw it again, watching with grim satisfaction as it smashed against the driver's side door, leaving a dent behind.

Lyla stood in the middle of the field, incensed beyond anything she had ever felt in her life. She hated her father and his humiliating behaviour. She hated Jason Street and his sexy tattoo girl. She hated Tim Riggins and his stupid eyes. She hated Tyra Collette and her knowing smirk. She hated every cheerleader, football player, rally girl, and football fan in Dillon. No, in Carr County. No. Even better – she hated every cheerleader, football player, rally girl, and football fan in the _entire state of Texas._

What had any of them ever done for her? They liked her when she was easy to like. They judged her when she was easy to judge. They turned on her, and then they pretended that she no longer existed, because she was no longer someone who mattered. No one ever asked how she was doing, if she was okay. No one cared, except Mrs. Taylor.

This was it for her, she decided, standing there, shaking with rage. No more cheer. No more football. No more playing along and pretending and smiling and being happy for everyone. Forget it. As far as she was concerned, the whole town of Dillon could go jump off a cliff.

Lyla leaned against the trunk of her car, scuffing her shoes in the dirt and heaving a huge sigh. It couldn't be too much longer for the tow truck.

At the sound of a nearby car engine, Lyla looked up. A station wagon was backing into the service road where she was parked. Thanking God for this one small mercy, Lyla approached the vehicle hopefully, stopping short when a familiar bright blonde head poked out of the back window.

"Hey, cheating cheerleader bitch!"

Tyra Collette. As it turned out, her life_ could_ get worse.

Then, inexplicably, it got better.


End file.
